


tell me i've got it wrong somehow

by mouthymandalorian



Series: reputation [3]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cussing, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Yelling, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29377017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouthymandalorian/pseuds/mouthymandalorian
Summary: being in love with a DEA agent that took down escobar and is currently trying to take down the most powerful drug cartel on the planet is not an easy thing to do. and sometimes it just downright sucks.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Reader
Series: reputation [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154576
Comments: 9
Kudos: 40





	tell me i've got it wrong somehow

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr.](https://mouthymandalorian.tumblr.com)
> 
> i'm so sorry, y'all, i hurt my own damn self writing this one. it gets better, i PROMISE, but this is a required part of it because what is javi? emotionally immature!

You keep your relationship quiet at work so you don’t get fired, and he doesn’t get reprimanded. But he lets you call him your boyfriend. He meets your friends. He fucks you up and down the Embassy hallways, the bathrooms, his office. He’s older than you, but the stamina on that man almost outpaces your own. Calls you _querida_. Like he’s pulling you into his world. He takes you on dates and sleeps in your bed and things are amazing.

For a while.

The cracks show themselves when your parents announce a visit for Christmas and you ask him if he wants to meet them. It’s been six months since you started seeing each other. It’s not an unreasonable request.

It’s an off-handed question. You don’t expect the pushback you receive.

“No. I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. He gets up from the couch and lights a cigarette.

“What? Wait, I thought you were quitting—” you say.

“It’s just not. It’s not a good idea,” he says again, ignoring the comment about his sixth attempt at giving up cigarettes in as many months. He won’t elaborate; outright refuses.

“I don’t understand; why isn’t it a good idea?” you ask, confused at his sudden irritation. You’re not even mad; you just don’t know what happened.

“I don’t want to, okay?”  
“But it’s important—”  
“Leave it alone, you’re being fucking crazy,” he snaps.

Your heart jumps into your throat at the cruelty of his words. He _never_ speaks to you like this. Never outright dismisses your thoughts or feelings. Never treats you like a hysterical, nagging girlfriend.

“Javi?” you ask. But he doesn’t answer you.

He’s never hurt you like this. You didn't know he had it in him. You calmly excuse yourself to the bathroom so you can let yourself cry without feeling like an idiot in front of him. Introducing him to your parents was a big deal to you.

When your face changes from confused to pained, like he slapped you, Javier knows he’s fucked up. He sits outside of the bathroom door and softly calls your name; apologizing for what he said, begging you to talk to him. When you open the door, he pulls you into his chest and asks your forgiveness.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have fucking said it. You’re not crazy, you’re not. I’m just not ready, baby,” he says into the top of your head.

You let it go. He needs time, right? He’ll meet them next time. Christmas comes and goes and you don’t see him outside of work for two weeks while you’re entertaining your parents. There are pictures of him everywhere in your apartment; you told your mom about him long before the two of you got together. It’s impossible to hide him, so you tell them he’s got a big case that he’s working on that took him out of town. They seem impressed.

Your stomach roils at the lie.

After Christmas, while you’re taking down the last of the Christmas lights, he shows up at your place and fucks you like it’s the end of the world, murmurs that he missed you so much, that he’s so sorry, that he’ll be better for you.

His tenderness is so unexpected that you have to forgive him because you love him.

Does he _know_ you love him? Does he love you?

You’re far too afraid to ask.

* * *

The Cali Cartel proves an even tougher adversary than originally thought. The nights at work get longer. Javi makes you go home at seven now. You argue with him, but he doesn’t budge.

“It’s too dangerous for you to be out here that late,” he says. His soft brown eyes are full of concern. He wants to keep you safe, so you let him protect you.

The time alone gives you space to think. Eight months into your relationship and you’ve never been to his apartment. He always finds some excuse. Your place is closer to work. He needs to clean up. The AC is being replaced.

And now… now he doesn’t want you around at work? It’s suddenly too dangerous? You’ve worked late nights with him since the beginning.

“Why don’t we ever stay at your place?” you ask. He takes a drag from a cigarette and taps the ash into the little amber dish balancing on his belly.

“Your place is nicer,” he says. You wrinkle your nose because you don’t believe him. He sighs.  
“It’s safer here. No cartel thug needs to see you going in and out of my building,” he tells you.  
“But they can watch you come in and out of my place?” you shoot back.  
“No one is tailing me, baby—,” he starts.  
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snap, “You don’t want me at your apartment. Why? You don’t want other women to see me over there?”

Where did that accusation come from? You’ve never been jealous at all. You’ve felt nothing other than sure of his faithfulness. But that little voice in the back of your head reminds you of his past; of that man he was before you. He earned that reputation for a reason, didn’t he? And maybe you’re not enough.

“Baby…” he says, sitting up suddenly, eyebrows furrowed, searching your face. “You—you think I’m cheating on you?”

“I don’t know,” you say, hugging yourself. You feel you’ve just confessed your darkest sin. He puts his arms around you and buries his face in your neck.

“Listen, I-I never—I would never. Please believe me. I’m yours. And I need you to trust me. You’re safer here. Those men; if they got you—,” he mumbles into your skin, choking on his words.

“Oh, Javi,” you sigh into his thick, mussed hair.

He is so obviously broken. You’d known better than to get involved with him from the beginning, but it’s too late now. His brown eyes are so sad, so soft with concern.

But when he lets himself relax? Lets himself vulnerable with you and only you?

You could fix this shattered man; you could glue him back together with patience and kisses and long, drawn out lovemaking. You could, you could, you could.

You’re not an idiot. After a few more months of watching him retreat into himself, you realize he’s going to put you through hell, but you don’t care. You just don’t care. You are so desperately, hopelessly, stupidly in love with him it doesn’t matter.

You dream of being kidnapped; of Javi burning the cartel to ash to get you back.

* * *

Javi disappears for days and shows up looking exhausted and scared and angry and wounded. The only thing you can do is hold him and kiss him and fuck it out of him. He disappears farther into you, murmuring in Spanish.

“Nunca te dejare ir, nunca te dejare ir,” he says.

_I’ll never let you go._

Tonight is one of those nights. At one am there’s a knock on your door; when you open it there’s a bruise blossoming across his beautiful face. He ignores your questions; instead he catches your jaw with his hand and plants a bruising kiss on your mouth.

Javi falls onto the couch and pulls you down on top of him. He grabs fistfuls of the soft flesh of your hips and ass, leaving bruises in his wake. Your heartbeat quickens and you think you should stop him, ask him what’s going on, but it’s too hard. It’s too hard to push him away when he gives himself to you.

You steady yourself on his thigh and you melt against his movements. Your lips are swollen, your clit searches for relief, and his big hands settle on your hips while you back and forth.

“You’re my good fucking girl, are you gonna get yourself off like that? Fuck, _querida_ ,” he growls, and his voice is dark and deep. All you can do is whine at the feeling rising inside of you. He leans into you and kisses you again—softer, this time, but just as urgent, licking his way into your mouth. Your thigh slips between his legs and brushes against his hard cock, straining against his jeans.

Javi’s greedy tonight. He can’t wait for you to get off like this. He pulls your wet panties aside and plays with your soft, warm folds, skillfully thumbing your clit as you glide back and forth across him.

“Always so wet for me,” he says, “How are you always so fucking wet?”

“You,” you whine, leaning forward into his touch. It’s not a lie. Your pussy responds to him with no say from your head or your heart. It’s always been this way.

“I’m coming,” you whisper against him.  
“Fuck, yeah, yeah you are, come on baby, come for me,” he says moving his thumb faster and pushing two fingers inside you. His thick fingers send you over the edge; your release is so hard, so intense, you see little stars in the corners of your eyes.

“Javi, Javi, Javi, baby—” you whimper and sag against him while, your cunt throbbing. He pulls his fingers out and they’re slick, soaked with your juices; he shoves them in your mouth and your lap yourself up.

“I need you,” he groans, looking at you with dark eyes full of lust that glitter like the night sky.

You unbuckle his pants and take off his shirt, feverish, needy; you sink down onto him and the stretch is delicious. It always hurts, just a little—he’s so thick-but tonight he’s like steel inside you. Javi grabs your hair and pulls your head back to expose your neck. He wraps his mouth around where your neck meets your shoulder and sucks, hard, like he’s marking you.

“Mine—mine—mine,” he murmurs into your tender skin, thrusting upward with each utterance, holding you down, like he’s trying to keep you there with him; like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t.

“In me, Javi, in me,” you beg, hoping you can be closer to him for just a moment. He slams his hips into you a final time and moans your name into your neck.

“IneedyouIneedIneedyouINEEDyou,” he says.

You wish it was “I love you,” but it’ll do for now. Sometimes you think that’s what he means. His breathing is heavy, almost to the point of hyperventilating. You hold your hand to his chest, trying to calm him. The two of you stay like that for a while, his softening cock settled into your come-full cunt. It’s the closest you can get to him and you wanted to stay like that forever, entwined in each other.

* * *

You don’t know what starts the fight, exactly. You think it’s because you pushed for details on the bruise on his cheek.

“What do you want from me?” he spits. Javier stands in your kitchen, half-dressed, arms folded over his bare chest. He’s still leaking out of you.

“I want you to stop this! Talk to me!” you yell. You’ve never yelled at him.  
“I’m talking to you right now, baby,” he says, rubbing his face in exhaustion.

“Javi… please, you disappear for days at a time and don’t tell me where you are. You call at 11 pm and say you’re just checking on me. You barely speak to me at work. And then you show up here in the middle of the night, fuck me, ignore me when I ask why you’re hurt and try to leave? I don’t understand. What did I do? What happened to us?” you plead, stepping right in front of him, forcing him to look at you.

“Nothing happened to us! I’m right here. I’m right fucking here, goddammit, I have to work. Not all of us bring people's coffee for a fucking living,” he yells.

It’s the silence after an earthquake; where everything is still for a moment, before you realize nothing is the same as it was before. You don’t know what to do, or what to say, so you back away from him.

“Baby, I—” he starts. He’s trying to apologize.  
“That’s what you think of me? After all this time? I’m still the girl who brings your coffee? The assistant you want to fuck?” you ask. Your voice

does not shake with the grief pooling inside of you.  
“Fuck, no, you’re so much more—”  
“We’re done, Javier,” you say.  
“Please—”  
“Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

You’d tolerated it for so long because you knew the amount of stress he was under. You’d been so patient for so long. He’d pushed you away, and you’d given him space. He could be a real son of a bitch, but not to you. Never to you. Even when he was distant, he treated you with respect.

He’s never made you feel you were less than. But tonight, in your dimly lit kitchen, he lets you know that’s exactly what he thinks of you.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers, but he sees the fire in your eyes. When he leaves, you slam the door behind him, sink to the floor, and give yourself permission to sob. The next day, for the second time in your career, you call in. And you call in the next day, too. And the next day.

There are no flowers this time.

Against your will, you worry. He’s never just left you alone. And yeah, maybe he’s respecting your wishes, but Javier is protective. Even when he disappears, he checks in on you. Especially if he knows you’re upset. So you do something you shouldn’t. You go to his apartment.

You only want to make sure he’s alive.

You’ve been there a few times, usually while he runs in to get a change of clothes, or pick up something he needs for a case. Never inside. You know his window because you can see him from the car when he goes inside. It’s dark out, so you hope you’ll go by unnoticed if his light isn’t on.

You pull up in your little Volvo, thanking the lord that it’s black so you blend in. The light in his apartment is off and your stomach twists a little. Where is he?

You scan the gated garage for his car and breathe a sigh of relief when you find it and reason that he’s probably asleep. A light turns on in his window. You watch with interest. See him moving back and forth in his living room.

You should go up and see him, you decide. Maybe you could talk it out. Maybe he’d listen to you. Maybe it’d all be okay. You could apologize for being...what? Overdramatic? You know you weren't being overdramatic. But you miss him, and you need the anxiety clawing in your stomach to go away. You can’t leave it like this.

So you check your reflection in the rearview mirror, step out of your car into the quiet street, and brace yourself for the conversation ahead of you. The creak of a door opening stops you in your tracks. Light spills from the entryway and a tall, beautiful woman in a mini-skirt and halter top steps out on the stoop. Behind her you see Javi.

_Your_ Javi.

She leans up to kiss him, and he moves his head back to avoid it. He hands her some money. The scene in front of you surprises you so much that you drop your keys and they clatter loudly to the ground.

The sound is deafening on the quiet street. Javier looks up, alarmed, and sees you standing there with your mouth open. He looks as upset as you feel.

This is the worst decision you’ve ever made.

You bend to pick your keys up; you can’t breathe, you have to get out of there; you have to leave. You’ve made such a huge mistake coming here; can’t believe you were so fucking stupid; can’t believe you thought you were the only woman he was fucking.

You respected sex workers and understood these women were working their way through the world just like everyone else. You didn’t understand why he couldn’t come to you, why he had to pay for it. Why weren’t you enough?

He’d told you you were the only one.

You hear him running barefoot across the pavement, and you’re shaking, trying to pick up the goddamn keys before he gets to you because you cannot talk to him. If you talk to him, you’ll die, you’re sure of it. He yells your name, but you can’t hear it. Your vision is blurry, your ears are full of static, and you can’t breathe.

He grabs your shoulders and turns you to face him. Asks if you’re okay. The fucking bastard. The question snaps you out of your stupor.

“I thought you were dead, Javi,” you scream, “I came to make sure you were alive. You were just fucking your way around town, you fucking bastard, I should have known better. I should have listened to everyone--”

“No, no, baby—I didn’t, this isn’t what it looks like—please, I’m so sorry, I thought you wanted your space, I—,” he scrambles, trying to convince you of something you knew was untrue. His hair was mussed, like he’d been laying on his back, and his clothes were askew.

“I saw you turn the fucking light on, you fucking liar,” you scream, “What, the two of you were taking a nap?”

The venom in your words surprises you. You realize you’re going to fall apart in the middle of the street, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

“You told me you never wanted to see me cry again. You told me I would never be the girl who fucked her boss.”

“I’m so fucking stupid,” you say. He grabs at your hands, your face, tries to get you to look at him, but you can’t. You can’t look into his brown eyes because you know it’s all over from there.

“I have to go,” you say.

“Please, _querida_ , don’t, don’t go—please, I can really explain, I thought—”

“Get OFF me, Javi,” you scream, and you fight him off.

He looks at you, helplessly, sadly. You turn around and open your car door, and before you leave, you turn to him.

“I love you, Javi. I love you,” you say, tears streaming down your face. And then you’re gone.

You watch his reflection get smaller in your rearview mirror. He stands in the street, watching you turn the corner.

The street is still again.

**Author's Note:**

> i regret nothing.


End file.
